Last week our new neighbors moved in. However, before they arrived, the patriarch of the family, did as humans often do -- made sure that his property boundaries were clearly marked and secured. This wasn't a case of the usual male "gotta stake out my domain" mentality. We all stared in disbelief as the fencing went up. There was great speculation as to what was going on. Barbed wire and split post, didn’t exactly fit with the community’s Italian resort theme.

The fact that the new neighbors apparently moved in during the middle of the night, wasn't even something worthy of anyone lifting an eyebrow. Long time Floridians, almost expect that people will come or more likely go -- under the cover of darkness.

So there we were, some of us half amused, kids gleefully shocked, all turning out throughout the day to meet the new neighbors. Their arrival even warranted young parents bringing out their cameras. Some even greeted the newcomers with ill advised treats, that may not have been good for them. A few brave souls trespassed over the barbed wire fence just to get a little closer, innocently unaware of the potential dangers of co-mingling with those who are not-of-your-kind.

Outside the facade of gated opulent pretense, you are greeted by climbing rosebushes, trailing flowering vines over stucco golden pillars. True to Florida sunshine and greenery, this entry way vision of the treasures behind the guarded swinging wrought iron -- give testimony to hinted standards of living befitting of Italy or Spain.

Just beyond the gate, on a wide paved brick road, you are filled with the serenity of fountains and statues, cement benches overflowing with fragrant flowers, as your mind and ears take in the sound of the first magnificent water fountain, one of five.

An exclusive, postcard lovely amenity center, stands off to the right. Inside it's doors are plush imported state-of-the-arts exercise equipment, marbled massive his and hers bathrooms, complete with showers and golden fixtures.

The ever-friendly concierge greets you as you sign in, always checking that you indeed "belong." Off to the left, there's the windowed nursery playroom, so that young parents aren't left out of the exclusiveness, and can exercise in peace-of-mind, knowing babies are safe and in sight.

In the next room, sits the tastefully furnished big screen entertainment area, free and waiting for anyone to use, if no event has already been scheduled. There is always free coffee and sodas for those who belong and their guests in the fully equipped kitchen, beside private meeting rooms.

Beyond the massive inside glass doors, lies sculptured courtyards, a modern roofed playground, hot tubs, three swimming pools, completed by a nature trail boardwalk and covered gazebo.

Leaving there and heading toward your own piece of paradise, you travel along the first of two large private lakes lakes, along beautifully landscaped side walk trails meandering along pastures and well manicured lawns.

Smack dab in the middle of the lakes are massive water fountain features and just about everyone's backyards are framed by over sixty percent of the land in the community being conservation preserves, never-to-be touched.

Growing up in the American west, when we first moved in, it reminded me of being were among the first pioneers in a shiny new town filled with hope. Of the over six hundred planned homes, sitting on over six and fifty acres, only twenty-four (including six models), had been built. Of them, less than half were occupied. Yet, before the real estate bubble crashed, this was a daily sea of construction activity. Four months later, the tsunami of reality came crashing ashore.

Our house sits high on a hill, smack dab in the middle of two vacant lots on both sides. The house directly across the street, the same. If tumble weeds were native to Florida, I have no doubt my granddaughter would be able to build tumble weed forts (a childhood activity my little brother and I enjoyed as we lobbed rocks at each other from our respective weed forts).   She's five foot tall, and the weeds are sometimes taller than she is.

Instead, the one thing Florida has an abundance of -- sand -- blows with every breeze. Gone are the construction crews, the sounds of hammers and heavy equipment. Gone are the tile roofer layers, the tile floor artisans, the endless parade of electricians, and plumbers. Gone are the real estate agents and their prospective clients on backs of golf carts.

What there is in place, is a frontier-like silence, reminding you of what it must have been like after a gold rush boom, as towns emptied out and people moved on to the next "paradise."

The cows came home to our modern day ghost town simply because the original owner, vested heavily in the failing unfinished housing subdivision, was wise enough to make the best use of the remaining portion of his land. As someone familiar with agricultural BMP (best management practices), I completely understood. Land that is not being used, is a tax liability and a waste of resources.

Living in a state where the bulk of unsold new homes is over eighty-five percent, many of us saw it coming. In one year’s time, we went from a real estate market boom where a buyer looking at a house, would lose the opportunity to buy it, before they could make an offer in writing -- to a market where everything came to a screeching halt.

Here in Florida, this market was fueled not only by the folly of sub prime loans, and unqualified borrowers coming in the back door, despite their inability to make the monthly payments for any sustainable period of time -- but also by a highly speculative investment market, much of which was controlled by Europeans and South Americans looking to get rich quick by flipping the properties.

Twenty-four families to support the amenities and utilities of a gated community of over six hundred expected families -- well, you only can wonder whose going to pay for the street lights, the landscape up-keep, the electricity those pumps use, the heated swimming pools, etc. Subtle little signs, as once daily manicured properties, turn brown, sprinkler heads shoot off like fountains, sprinklers in common grounds on even in the rain -- trees, flowers and shrubs dying in neglect.

The future home of the planned tennis court seems like a joke, along with the community events that the concierge keeps cancelling for lack of RSVP interest. There is not one child in the whole development for an eleven year old girl to play with, just a couple of toddlers.

Across the United States countless similar subdivisions have suffered as builders got into financing trouble and couldn’t sell the homes they had built. Workers are no longer framing out new homes. No more foundations are being poured.

In a world of planned home owners associations, the community upkeep of these grand designs is daunting, just how can the dues of a handful of families sustain that lifestyle is one of the many questions that come to mind.

Added to the mess, at least in this state, is the fact that foreign investors are abandoning and deliberately choosing foreclosure, once they find out that there are no buyers, and not even any renters. For them, it's only a blight on their credit and an impossibility to collect globally in some cases for the banks that made the original loans. 

Side walks are unfinished among the empty weed covered lots, but that problem is small compared to the real issues. Other side-effects of this situation are becoming even more alarming. Here, we’ve had several home invasions in the middle of the day, as those who will “take” in this world have caught on to the fact that few eyes are around to observe them.

Many builders in this state, have fled or gone bankrupt. Home prices have dropped almost $100,000 each in asking price across this county’s unfinished subdivisions. Even if new builders come in, will the homes be as planned? Will the construction be of the same quality? We live in a fragile world of not being able to predict who will survive and who will fail.

As a native Californian, it has not been lost on me, having seen how the West was lost, what the cost of paving over paradise means. Where the pretty people play and live, after rich men rape the land and put up stucco block sarcophagus boxes - no matter how romantically Tuscany painted -- this is nothing new. Even before Don Henley penned the words to the song, The Last Resort, this realtiy was a storm on our American horizon.

No one has paid a heavier price than the rest of our neighbors, for this once was part of a large cattle ranch and heavily pristine nature conservation area. The rest of our neighbors have been here for generations, for they have no place to go, now that we've invaded their land. I'm pretty sure no one asked them for permission to build.

We live among sand hill cranes, wild boars, coyotes, poisonous snakes, foxes, eagles, field mice, and a large population of alligators. They are adjusting, as many of my city raised neighbors adjust to the shock of seeing them on a daily basis.

Each morning we awaken to the honking of male sand hill cranes who have already figured out that there is "free food" if you make a big enough racket. Each night the coyotes call to each other, leaving the elderly beagle who shares our world, beady-eyed alert and trembling at what she knows about having them for neighbors. She has no desire to become a coyote McDogwich.

Twice a day, the three hundred pound wild boar herds his sow and their five piglets across a bricked road, giving every dog walker in the community pause for thought. Rattle snakes and copper head snakes cross the roads at will, and cause unexpected screaming heard several doors down, each time one decides to visit inviting porches and flower gardens. City raised neighbors with shiny new houses also don't expect to be invaded by field mice either.

The sadness I feel when I watch a lone fox try to breach the six foot high wall, fenced in world, he no longer commands -- is heavy. We didn't buy into this world intentionally, as this housing choice for our family was a last resort. The owner of another house that we were purchasing failed to inform anyone until closing, that she didn't actually own the house (a future hub), prompting a most hasty search for a new home, ours having been sold.

As for the rest of tour non-human neighbors, if they could speak, I wonder what they have to say about this fine mess we are all in? I wonder if they'd say, "this is the last resort."